The Princess Bride
by FitchSwitch
Summary: This is EXACTLY what you think it is as long as you think this is Naomily set to the story of the Princess Bride .
1. Prologue

**A/n: So here's the deal. Klytaemnestra is evil. ... Okay, not really. But there I was moaning and groaning about how severely I'm blocked for NAIS and how much I know I should write it and what a _bad bad _author I am and then Klytaemnestra over there makes a post about Naomi and Emily fitting into Princess Bride and before you could say "As you wish" my brain was going "YES. THAT WOULD BE SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE." **

**Obviously, this is pretty tightly based on The Princess Bride. Since I'm in a hostel in Europe (thanks for the free wifi Europe!) I don't have access to either of my copies of the book (yes, either, I have more than one, don't judge me) nor do I have the movie on hand, so this is based off the script (International Script Database is such a convenient website). With my own twists and turns and interpretations at bits. As you'll be able to see I fit it into the Tell Me A Story universe, a bit further in the future from where that story is now. **

**You should all be warned: This is funny and fun and crack-tastic. All the characters are a little (or a lot) OOC. I apologize to Klytaemnestra for switching some of your original casting around, but it was a bit more convenient this way. Because this is based off something it should be updated pretty frequently, but _don't hold me to that_. Un-beta'd as always so all mistakes are mine.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins. I don't own The Princess Bride. I barely own a set of clean clothes at the moment. But this was a fuckton of fun to write. **

**Please keep your hands and feet inside the crack-fic at all times. And enjoy. **

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><p>If there was one thing that Amelia Fitch-Campbell (Mia to everyone who knew her) hated more than anything else in the world it was being sick. When she was younger her parents had called her a nuclear reactor of energy and when she got older that hadn't gone away, only been refined and focused. She was the world's worst patient when she got sick: she fidgeted when she had to stay in bed, she never took her medicine on time, and she complained loudly about being bored.<p>

Her Mama, Emily, said she got this from her Aunt Katie. Her Mum, Naomi, said that she got it from her Mama (but only when Emily wasn't around).

So that was why, at twelve-years-old, Mia wasn't happy about having to stay in bed with the flu. About day number three, in fact, she was practically unapproachable. She grumbled as she lay in bed and thoroughly and meticulously assassinated every target in _Assassin's Creed_ three times over. It helped relieve her frustration. After a while she got bored and tossed the controller to the side, crossing her arms and scowling out the window. She could see a bit of her reflection in the glass and it only made her scowl harder.

Mia was in that stage of adolescence where everything about you is awkward. She was thin and lanky, and thanks to her newest growth spurt she hadn't exactly gotten complete control of her limbs yet. Her dark blonde hair brushed her shoulders but she hated doing anything with it and right at that moment it was rumpled and unkempt from countless hours in bed. Her face was already starting to develop the characteristics of a very pretty girl, and that would probably only be accentuated further the older she got.

Typically, she hated everything about herself.

The door to her room opened as she was contemplating everything about herself that she would change, and immediately the noise in her room doubled. Her little siblings were only six and still didn't grasp the concept of being quiet so their sister could get better.

"Hello love," her Mama sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her hand against Mia's forehead to check her temperature. "Feeling any better?"

Despite being in a generally bad mood, Mia smiled at her mother. She loved her parents more than words could possibly express.

"Not really," she answered honestly. Her voice came out raspy from all the coughing she'd been doing. "Can't you ask the twins to keep it down?"

Her mother frowned and opened the door a bit wider, sticking her head to call out 'Naoms? Settle them down, will you? They're bothering Mia', and almost immediately the noise from the other room quieted to a dull roar. Mia had a feeling that was her Mum's doing. As she knew from personal experience the Campbell glare was a frightening thing to be on the receiving end of.

Emily sat back down on her bed and fluffed her pillows for her. "Feeling up to a visitor?" she asked after Mia had (semi-obediently) taken her medicine.

Mia shrugged one shoulder tiredly. "Maybe. Not Jason and Sian, I can't deal with them. Or Abby."

Her mother laughed. "It's neither your brother and sister nor your cousin. Want to guess?"

Mia's curiosity piqued. She sat up a little straighter in bed. "David Beckham?" she asked hopefully.

The door swung open and one of her favorite people walked in carrying a bundle under their arm. Gina Campbell raised one eyebrow in a perfect imitation of her daughter (and her granddaughter). "Now why would I be David Beckham?" she asked.

"Gram!" Mia grinned, not at all perturbed that a famous football player didn't walk in instead. "Is that a present for me?"

Her mother and grandmother exchanged eyerolls. "The more things change, the more they stay the same," her Mama said. She stood up as her mother-in-law pulled Mia's desk chair over to the side of the bed. "I'll be making dinner if you need me." Her Mama left and shut the door firmly behind her, effectively muffling the sound coming from the rest of the house.

"So?" Mia prompted as her grandmother got settled. "Is it?"

"Is it what?" Gina teased.

"_Gram_. Is it a present for me?"

Gina chuckled. "In a way." She held up the rectangular object in her hands and watched her granddaughter's reaction.

Mia frowned. "A book? I'm your poor, sick, and might I add favorite grandchild all cooped up in bed and you brought me a book to read? That's not going to help with my head, Gram."

"I know it's not," Gina agreed. "That's why you're going to lie back and I'm going to read it to you."

"That could work," Mia conceded reluctantly. She loved reading, she really did, but the last thing she wanted to do was listen to a story when she would much rather be playing outside. Finally she sighed and cuddled back into her pillows, resigning herself to her fate. "S'not like my video games are very fun anymore. Is it a good book at least?"

Gina gasped dramatically and clutched at her chest. "A good book?" she repeated. "It's got everything. Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Revenge. Giants. Monsters. Chases. Escapes. True love. Miracles."

With every word Mia's eyebrows shot up farther until they were in real danger of disappearing into her hairline. "I guess that…doesn't sound too bad," she said finally. "I'll try and stay awake."

"Oh, well thank you very much," Gina said sarcastically. "It's very nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming." She thumbed open the first page, set her glasses on her nose, and began to read: "_The Princess Bride, by S. Morgenstern. Chapter One. Naomi_…"

"Gram!" Mia interrupted immediately. When Gina looked up the twelve-year-old had a mischievous smile etched all over her face. "Did you just take the main characters and switch them out for Mum and Mama?"

"Maybe," Gina tapped the side of her nose and winked. "It's more fun that way, don't you think?" When Mia nodded she pushed her glasses back into place and started again. "_Naomi was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin…" _

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><p>Naomi Campbell was probably the most beautiful person in the world. This could be contested by other beautiful people in the world, but it was still the truth. In fact, if she took more care of herself she would most <em>definitely <em>be the most beautiful. As it was she liked her white-blonde hair the way it was: short and choppy, all the better to keep it out of her face. She liked horses more than she liked people, and rarely ever spoke without some form of sarcasm on the tip of her tongue. Her bright blue eyes captured the interest of almost everyone who saw them, if she spared them more than a cursory glance that is.

Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm girl that worked for her family. Her name was Emily, but she never called her that.

Emily's whole family worked for the Campbells, but it was only Emily that Naomi ever tormented. The other girl always seemed to be around, either helping her mother in the house, or her father in the yard, or her brother in the stables. Everything about the other girl got on Naomi's nerves: her vibrant red hair that was too bright and rich and the way it stuck to her forehead when she worked up a sweat doing chores, the dimple in the corner of her cheek that only showed up when she smiled widely enough, and how uncomfortable it made her feel whenever she noticed those brown eyes watching her.

She got on Naomi's nerves, and so nothing gave Naomi as much pleasure as ordering Emily around.

One day Naomi got home from riding (she rode every afternoon, rain or shine) and slid fluidly off her horse just in front of Emily, who was kneeling in the garden. Naomi didn't like the twisting sensation that happened in her gut when she noticed Emily kneeling over in the dirt and so an order came out automatically.

"Farm girl," she said snottily, and ignored the way her stomach twisted tighter when Emily looked up at her. "Polish my horse's saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning."

Emily stood up and brushed her hands against her trousers. It irked Naomi that they seemed to have the same view of wearing dresses: if they didn't have to, they didn't at all. Emily was smaller than Naomi and would probably have been described as fragile if it weren't for the fluid way her muscles worked underneath her skin. Her tunic was a little too big and slid along her shoulder as she sketched a cursory bow.

"As you wish," she said quietly, watching Naomi the whole time. Her voice was low and a little raspy, sounding perpetually like she'd just gotten over a cough. 'As you wish' was all she ever said to Naomi, and the blonde girl refused to let herself think that maybe the reason she ordered Emily around so much was because it gave her a chance to hear the other girl speak.

That was normal. That was routine. Nothing in the weeks or months or years changed that. Naomi would order and Emily would answer and do as she was told. It wasn't until one day when they were eighteen that things changed at all.

Naomi stormed outside in a dark mood and threw two large buckets towards where Emily was taking a break eating an apple in the shade of a tree.

"Farm girl," she snapped, and her heart sped up faster when Emily pushed herself up onto her elbows to look at her. A bit of collarbone peaked out underneath the tunic that was still too big. "Fill these with water –" There was a long beat where Naomi seemed to be arguing with herself before she ended with, "– please."

Like always, Emily's eyebrow quirked up. The corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile and her eyes were bright and playful as she answered, "As you wish."

Naomi nodded tersely and started to storm back towards the house, but she still felt eyes on her back. She pivoted immediately on her heel to give Emily a piece of her mind about making people feel uncomfortable and stopped when brown eyes met blue across the yard.

That day, in a sudden flash of realization, she was amazed to discover that when she was saying "As you wish," what Emily actually meant was "I love you".

But even more amazing was the day Naomi realized that she truly loved her back.

Naomi was sitting on the counter in the kitchen, actually rather bored. Everyone had gone to the town except for herself because someone needed to stay behind. And Emily was around somewhere working as well, she had been assured by her parents (who had no idea that being told they were leaving her alone on the farm with Emily for an undetermined amount of time was not reassuring at all). Just as that thought crossed her mind the other girl elbowed her way through the door, arms full of firewood.

Not for the first time Naomi found herself marveling at the amount of strength in a girl so small. The other girl didn't even notice she was in the room until Naomi, a little put out about being ignored, kicked her feet against the counter petulantly. Emily jumped and almost dropped her burden but quickly turned the motion into a respectful nod and went about putting the firewood away again.

A frown slipped onto Naomi's face all on its own. She didn't want a _nod_.

"Farm girl," she snapped, and Emily looked up from putting the wood away. The other girl brushed a wayward piece of bright red hair out of her face and for some reason the motion made Naomi's scowl deepen. Naomi gestured to a pitcher on the counter halfway between herself and Emily. "Fetch me that pitcher."

It was a completely unnecessary order and that was obvious to both of them. The pitcher was well within Naomi's reach. Nevertheless Emily stood up and dusted her hands off on her shirt before grabbing the pitcher and bringing it over.

Quite abruptly Emily was far closer than Naomi thought she would be. Two steps to the right and the redhead would be standing between Naomi's legs. She didn't do anything as bold as that, of course, instead just quietly holding the pitcher out for her to take with that same peaceful expression and intense gaze she always had. Naomi's breath hitched oddly and she started to question why she had even asked Emily to do anything.

She grabbed the pitcher with a bit more force than necessary. Their fingers brushed. But instead of moving closer Emily just backed away again, the corner of her mouth turning up in that fondly amused smile like she knew something Naomi didn't.

"As you wish," she said quietly, and walked back out into the yard.

Something inside Naomi snapped. It wasn't a bad snap. Rather, it was more like something inside her chest clicked into place and she suddenly felt happier, less lonely. She was out the door before she could question herself.

Her legs were longer, she caught Emily just outside the small house that belonged to the Fitches and all it took was Emily's bright eyes and delighted grin to spur Naomi into action. Very abruptly her lips were on Emily's and it was warm and passionate and perfect. Emily brought her hand up behind Naomi's neck to pull her closer and Naomi sighed into the kiss because it had all finally fallen into place in her head: she'd never known a day without Emily and she didn't _want _to know a day without Emily.

It wasn't perfect. Naomi's parents were delighted, but Emily's were subtly disapproving. When it came up that Emily was planning on marrying Naomi they refused to contribute any amount of money to help get them set up on their own. Emily had no money for marriage without them, and so she packed up what little she had and left the farm to seek her fortune across the sea.

On the day she left Naomi's heart thumped painfully inside her chest and refused to stop hurting. They stood outside the gate to the farm for a long time with their arms around each other, locked in an embrace.

"I fear I'll never see you again," Naomi said. Her voice was quiet and sad.

Emily's arms tightened around her and she smiled, her lips brushing the bare skin of Naomi's neck because they were standing so close together. "Of course you will," she said confidently.

Naomi's hands clenched so tightly that she twisted up the back of Emily's shirt. The redhead didn't complain. She knew Naomi was fighting desperately to keep tears at bay. They were silent for a bit as Naomi got control of herself. Finally she whispered her greatest fear into Emily's hair. "But what if something happens to you?"

"Hear this now," Emily said. She slid out of Naomi's grasp and reached up to cup the blonde's face between her hands. She lifted Naomi's chin to make sure the other girl knew she meant every word. Her gaze was intense. "I will come for you."

Naomi leaned into the touch but her eyes were sad. "But how can you be sure?"

Emily grabbed the back of Naomi's neck and pulled her down so their foreheads pressed together. "This is true love," she said, and her eyes were bright and playful again, just like every time she had said 'as you wish' and meant something else. "You think this happens every day?"

Naomi laughed, and if it was a little watery they both pretended not to notice. She kissed Emily and kept kissing her until they were both breathless and a little heartbroken. And although it killed her Emily stepped out of Naomi's arms and grabbed her things and set off down the road. She didn't look back, because she knew if she did that she'd never be able to make herself leave, but Naomi watched her go until it was physically impossible to see her anymore.

Of course, this would not be a good story if that was the end.

Emily didn't reach her destination. Her ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never left captives alive. When Naomi got the news that Emily was murdered she went into her room and shut the door. And for days she neither slept nor ate. The brown of the wood in her room reminded her of bright and playful eyes. The red of the sunset reminded her of vibrant hair pulled up away from a gorgeous face.

She sat on her bed and stared out the window and promised she'd never love again.

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><p><strong>An: THIS IS SO EXCITING. **


	2. Five Years Later

**A/n: Having too much fun writing this story? ME? _Never_. (Okay maybe a little.) Warning: We've now gotten to the end of what I have pre-written. PS: I've liked the guesses as to who will be who, but I've pretty much stuck with Klytaemnestra's original thoughts for the cast, with a few changes here and there. Un-beta'd as always so all mistakes are mine. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins. I don't own Princess Bride. I sort of wish I owned both. **

**Please keep your hands and feet inside the crack-fic at all times. And enjoy. **

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><p>Five years later the main square of Florin City was filled as never before to hear the announcement of Prince Cook's bride-to-be.<p>

The whole crowd was awash with color. The people had put on their brightest and most expensive clothes. Vendors wove through the packed bodies extolling their wares at the top of their lungs. Small children climbed anything they could reach and waved little flags they'd made from sticks and spare pieces of cloth.

The noise of the crowd doubled when the doors on the castle balcony were thrown open and Prince Cook stepped out. He was a handsome man with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, a man of incredible power and bearing. His royal robes flapped in the breeze as he stepped up to the edge of the balcony. Three people stood behind him: the aging king and queen, their crowns almost weighing them down, and a sharp-looking man who seemed to be the Prince's match in size and strength: Count Foster.

Cook raised his hands and the crowd quieted immediately, all sets of ears straining to hear what he would say.

"My people," he began, his commanding voice carrying easily across the square. "A month from now our country will have its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a lady who was once a commoner like yourselves," here he paused to let the tension build up. Some people in the back of the crowd started shoving each other to try and get a better view. Cook smiled charmingly. "But perhaps you will not find her common now. Would you like to meet her?"

The answering "YES" boomed across the square like summer thunder, each voice raised in fervor.

Suddenly guards were moving around the staircase leading to the crowd and a figure appeared walking down them. If there was such a thing as collective action, this crowd collectively held its breath as the figure became clearer with each step down.

"My people," Cook waved his arm in a grand gesture towards the staircase, "the Princess Naomi!"

The sunlight hit her just right as she stepped out of the archway and lit her hair up like a halo. It was longer now, past her shoulders. Her clothes were blue and gold to set off her hair and eyes and they glittered with expensive fabrics and jewels. Gone was the Naomi who cut her hair short and rode her horse to distraction every day and kissed the farm girl. This new Naomi was every inch a princess.

She reached the bottom of the steps and started to walk among the people. A small child ran up and handed her a flower: it was a dandelion and its stalk was bent and a few of the seeds were missing. She smiled at him like he'd just given her an unparalleled diamond and kissed his cheek. The crowd adored it. And, as she moved among them, they did a very strange thing. With no instruction or planning they all began to go to their knees. Great waves of people kneeling before the new princess.

Naomi stood stock still, suddenly in the center of a crowd of kneeling people. She bit her lip and blinked hard, once, to get rid of the tears that threatened to surface. For a moment she was moved. Then she felt nothing once more. She started walking again, touching people, her face smiling and serene. But her eyes were empty.

Naomi's emptiness consumed her. When Prince Cook had stumbled across the farm and seen Naomi he'd decided he was going to marry her. She really had no choice in the matter. And although the law of the land gave Cook the right to choose his bride, she did not love him.

It didn't seem to matter.

Despite Cook's reassurances that she would grow to love him, the only joy she found was in her daily ride. The horse had changed and the woods had changed and the path had changed, but her riding did not.

The day after the announcement found her barreling through the woods at a breakneck speed. She controlled the horse easily: this was something she had always been able to do. Riding was something that was hers and it was comfortable. It took away the pain for a bit. The path was lovely; quiet and deserted as it was made to be each day when the princess took her daily ride.

Movement on the path made her rein in unexpectedly. The horse slowed and stopped, tossing its head and stamping its hooves in its impatience to be off again.

"A word, my lady?" a voice asked, and the source of the movement presented itself.

Three men stood close together on the path. Naomi took a moment to view her surroundings and realized she'd never traveled this far along the path before. The horse must have been going even faster than she thought; she could see the blue of the Florin Channel just past the tree line.

It was obvious even at a glance that the men were not your everyday travelers. Standing in the front, looking for all the world like a leader, was a man with tightly curled hair and an almost cherubic face. Unbeknownst to Naomi he was a Sicilian and preferred if people referred to him as Jonah. Beside him, tall where Jonah was short and tan where Jonah was pale was a Spaniard. He stood erect and taut as a blade of steel, one hand resting casually on the sword at his side. His name was Frederick McClair. Next to Frederick was a veritable giant of a man with skin as dark as night. He was known only as Thommo.

Jonah stepped forward and spread his hands out innocently, a calm smile on his face. "We are but poor, lost circus performers," he told her. His voice was quiet and soothing. "Is there a village nearby?"

Naomi shook her head and tightened her grip on the reins as the horse underneath her shied and danced back and forth nervously. The animal sensed what she did not. "There is nothing nearby," she informed him. "Not for miles."

"Good," Jonah's smile turned malicious in an instant. "Then there will be no one to hear you scream…"

He nodded to the giant and Thommo reached over casually and touched a nerve on Naomi's neck. The start of a scream caught halfway up her throat and stayed there – unconsciousness came so fast she couldn't even finish it. She wasn't even conscious for when she started to fall.

The trio carried her away easily. For someone as big as Thommo, Naomi was nothing but a feather in his arms. At a tiny isolated spot at the edge of the Florin Channel a sailboat was moored. It was dusk by the time the trio reached the boat and Frederick hopped nimbly inside, quickly setting about getting it ready for the water. Thommo carried the unconscious Naomi onboard while Jonah set about ripping tiny pieces of fabric from an army jacket and tucking them into the saddle of Naomi's horse. There was a determined and skillful air about the Sicilian as he did so.

Frederick looked up and cocked an eyebrow. "What is that you're ripping?" he asked, more than a hint of his accent showing through.

Jonah did not stop or turn as he answered, "It's the fabric from the uniform of an Army officer of Guilder."

"Who's Guilder?" Thommo frowned.

"The country across the sea. The sworn enemy of Florin." The Sicilian finished his task and slapped the horse's rump, urging it forward. "Go!"

The animal took off at a run back towards the castle and Jonah took off towards the boat. "Once the horse reaches the castle," he continued out loud, like he hadn't just sent an animal off on a conspicuous mission, "the fabric will make the Prince suspect the Guilderians have abducted his love. When he finds her body dead on the Guilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed."

Thommo frowned slowly and ponderously, the way he did almost everything. "You never said anything about killing anyone," he said eventually.

"I've hired you to help me start a war," Jonah said as he hopped into the boat. "That's a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition."

Thommo's frown deepened and he crossed his arms (now that they were no longer full of Naomi). "I just don't think it's right, killing an innocent girl."

Jonah whirled on him. "Am I going mad," he said in a completely pleasant voice that was not, in point of fact, pleasant at all, "or did the word 'think' escape your lips? You were not hired for brains, you hippopotamic land mass."

"I agree with Thommo," Frederick interjected.

"Oh," Jonah snapped. His neck and ears turned red as he worked himself up into a fury. "The sot has spoken. What happens to her is not truly your concern," he hissed viciously. "I will kill her. And remember this – never forget this – "

He advanced on them, the boat rocking a little with every step. Frederick watched his advance emotionlessly but Thommo, for all that he towered over the Sicilian, looked panicked.

Jonah pointed to Frederick first. "When I found you, you were so slobbering drunk you couldn't buy brandy," he snarled. Then he turned on Thommo, who retreated as far as he could when Jonah advanced on him again. "And you – friendless, brainless, helpless, hopeless – do you want me to send you back to where you were? Unemployed in Greenland?"

He glared at them for a few seconds more, just so that they got the point, and then turned on his heel and stormed off to the other end of the boat.

Frederick had inched closer to Thommo the whole time and now put a hand on his shoulder sympathetically as the giant tried to calm himself down, obviously distressed at the amount of insults he had just had hurled at him. Together they busied themselves with casting off.

"That Jonah," Frederick said softly. "he can _fuss_." He put an extra emphasis on the last word and his eyes flickered over to Thommo.

Thommo stared at Frederick for a moment and muttered, "Fuss…fuss…" Suddenly his eyes lit up. "I think he likes to scream at us."

"Probably he means no harm."

"He's really very short on charm."

Frederick smiled proudly and clapped Thommo on the back. "Oh, you've got a great gift for rhyme."

"Yes," Thommo started to smile a little. "Some of the time."

"Enough of that," Jonah snapped from the front.

The boat sailed off quietly into the night for a bit, until Frederick's voice broke the silence again.

"Thommo, are there rocks ahead?"

Thommo's answer was immediate. "If there are, we'll all be dead."

"No more rhymes now, I mean it."

"Anybody want a peanut?"

Jonah's frustrated scream reverberated.

They continued on (this time absolutely silent under Jonah's orders) for most of the night. Under Frederick's expert hand the boat raced across the dark waters. Jonah sat at the front of the boat the whole time, motionless and deadly quiet as he stared ahead. That left Thommo to stand guard over the body of the princess. For half a second he thought he saw her eyelids flutter, but since she didn't move or change her breathing in any way he shrugged it off as a trick of the light. The light liked to play tricks like that on him sometimes.

Around them the waves climbed higher and the moon peaked out between the clouds, sending slivers of silver to light their way.

Abruptly the silence was shattered by Jonah. "We'll reach the Cliffs by dawn," he said to Frederick decisively.

Frederick nodded, but he glanced back around him all the same. Something prickled at the back of his neck.

Jonah noticed. "Why are you doing that?" he demanded.

"Making sure nobody's following us," Frederick explained with a shrug.

Jonah's eyes narrowed. "That would be inconceivable."

Surprisingly, it wasn't Frederick's voice that answered. Naomi _had _woken up, finally, and her mind started to race when she noticed Thommo standing over her. She was a clever girl and she made the connections easily. The men had kidnapped her, most likely for some kind of ransom, most surely for some kind of nefarious purpose. Sometimes Naomi lost control of her temper. This was one of those times.

"Despite what you think," she snapped, "you will be caught. And when you are the Prince will see you all hanged." Naomi hated Cook but she was sure of one thing: he would not take kindly to these men stealing what he believed to be his, no matter that she knew she had only ever belonged to one person besides herself in the whole world and that person was most definitely not Prince Cook. His justice against these men would be swift and ruthless.

Jonah simply turned a cold eye to the princess, who pushed herself up enough to glare at him. "Of all the necks on this boat, Highness," he said, "the one you should be worrying about is your own." He noticed Frederick still looking around and scowled. "Stop doing that. We can all relax. It's almost over."

Frederick wasn't quite so sure. "Are you sure nobody's following us?"

"As I told you," Jonah snapped, "it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable. No one in Guilder knows what we've done. And no one in Florin could have gotten here so fast." He paused, as if suddenly remembering that he had hired Frederick for more than just his pretty face. "Out of curiosity, why do you ask?"

"No reason," Frederick said with a shrug too nonchalant to actually be relaxed. "It's only, I just happened to look behind us. And something is there."

"What?"

As one, the three men whirled to look behind them.

It was hard to see in the darkness; the moon had darted behind the clouds and cut off their only reliable light source (Jonah had vetoed bringing lanterns with them because that would attract far too much attention). Suddenly everything became significantly more ominous: the gentle wind grew bitter and whistled through the cracks in the boat, the waves began to rock faster.

All three of them squinted against the darkness, but there was nothing to see. The water was ominous and still. Maybe a little _too _still, in that way that sometimes causes people to say it's 'quiet…too quiet' and then inevitably they are attacked by something. Nobody on the boat spoke, however. The men had a sense of self-preservation at least.

Then abruptly the moon slipped through the clouds and tossed its light out again and all three of the men could see that Frederick was right – something was very much there. It was a sailboat: black with a great billowing sail. It was a good distance behind them still but closing the gap quickly as it barreled towards them like hell on water.

Jonah scrambled desperately to apply logic to the situation. "Probably some local fisherman," he said with as much confidence as he could muster, "our for a pleasure cruise. At night. Through eel-infested waters."

Even as he said that a splash resounded on their right. Jonah turned and screamed as he caught the tail end of Naomi diving into the water.

"Get in!" he ordered, roaring. "Get after her!"

"I don't swim!" Frederick countered.

Thommo shrugged, his whole mountain of muscle moving as he did so. He looked like he would sink like an anchor the moment he touched water. "I only dog paddle," he said.

Jonah shrieked his anger and grabbed at the helm. "Veer left. Left. Left!"

As all that went on in the boat, Naomi carried off with her escape. She wasn't as far off as Jonah seemed to think she was, but she had switched to a silent breast stroke to keep herself hidden. It struck her as odd that even now, in the midst of so much danger, something could remind her of Emily. Specifically the hours spent at the lake near her house when they had taught themselves to swim as children, before Naomi had decided tormenting Emily was more fun.

The wind around her died and when it did a new sound reached her ears: a very close and high-pitched shrieking sound. Naomi stopped immediately and began to tread water.

Jonah's gleeful cackle could barely be heard over the whining. "Do you know what that sound is, Highness?" he asked mockingly. "Those are the Shrieking Eels. If you doubt me, just wait. They always grow louder when they're about to feed on human flesh."

All the blood drained from Naomi's face as her arms and legs worked to keep her still in the water. She still wasn't that far from the boat, not nearly far enough to be considered an escape. The shrieking sounds grew louder and more terrifying and still Naomi remained silent, her jaw clenched stubbornly.

"If you swim back now," Jonah called, his voice now a low background sound against the shrieking, "I promise no harm will come to you. I doubt you will get such an offer from the Eels."

But Naomi was nothing if not gutsy and stubborn as a bull. It took her years to realize she was in love with Emily and even longer to act on it. She certainly wasn't the type of girl to cut and run on an escape without seeing it through. She bit her lip to keep any involuntary noises inside her throat and, although the shrieking noises grew ever louder, she didn't make a peep.

Behind her and so close she could feel the water move around it something dark and gigantic slithered past. The water around her vibrated with how hard she began to shake and still she didn't give in. She was scared – petrified – and still made no reply.

It was at that moment that she realized that the Sicilian wasn't bluffing at all. She could see the eel now, sort of. It circled her almost lazily, like it knew its prey wasn't going to put up much of a fight. Her terror started to drain away then. Death by eel would probably be painful, sure, but it was still death. Maybe she might even be able to see Emily again…

The eel zeroed in on her and darted forwards like a missile, intent only on her as she sat frozen in the water with her eyes shut against the impending doom. It launched forward with its jaws open wide –

* * *

><p>"She doesn't get eaten by eels at this time."<p>

Mia blinked. "What?"

Gina put her finger on the page to mark her place and looked over her reading glasses at her granddaughter. "The eel doesn't get her," she repeated. "I'm explaining to you because you looked nervous."

"Well, I wasn't nervous," Mia said stubbornly. Her grandmother said nothing and just looked at her. Eventually she shifted underneath that steady gaze and realized she was gripping the sheets of her bed so tightly she had managed to twist them into an entirely new formation. She quickly let go and tried to smooth them out as casually as she could. "Maybe I was a little bit concerned. But that's not the same thing."

Gina fought to keep the smile off her face, but the corners of her mouth twitched. "Because I can stop now if you want," she offered.

"No," Mia said a little too forcefully, her eyes never leaving the book. "You could read a little bit more…if you want."

Gina nodded and removed her finger. "_Do you know what that sound is, Highness?" _she began and was interrupted by Mia.

"We've passed that part," the twelve-year-old told her, and then tried to look uninterested. "I mean, I think we have. You read it already."

This time Gina couldn't help the smile. "I'm sorry. Beg your pardon." She ran her finger down the page until she got to a part that looked familiar. "All right, all right, let's see. Uh, she was in the water, the eel was coming after her. She was frightened. The eel started to charge her. And then…"

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><p><strong>Yes, Cook is Humperdinck. And JJ is Vizzini and Freddie is Inigo and Thomas is Fezzik. And Foster is the Count. You're welcome for that one. <strong>

**Next up might even be the Cliffs of Insanity. ARE YOU READY FOR THIS? I DON'T THINK YOU'RE READY FOR THIS. **


	3. The Cliffs of Insanity

**A/n: I have written so much of this story today my fingers are slightly bent out of shape. ZERO REGRETS. Oh man this is so much fun to write. Also I'm not really good at fight scenes so the script really helped out on this part. And in case you missed it this story sparked the _best twitter feed of all time_. It was glorious. Without further ado, onwards and upwards! Un-beta'd as always so any mistakes are mine. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins. I also do not own the Princess Bride, which is regretful. **

**Please keep your hands and feet inside of the crack-fic at all time. And enjoy.**

* * *

><p>A giant arm shot in front of her and slammed into the side of the eel, pounding the animal into unconsciousness with one blow. That same arm then reached over and plucked Naomi from the water as easily as a child with a toy.<p>

"Put her down," Jonah ordered as Thommo hauled her back. "Just put her down."

Thommo did as he was told and Frederick pointed behind them again. "I think he's getting closer," the Spaniard warned.

Jonah didn't look up from where he was busy tying Naomi's hands together. "He's no concern of ours. Sail on!" he tightened the knot and glanced up at Naomi. "I suppose you think you're brave, don't you?"

Her blue eyes stared deeply at him, cold and hard and cutting worse than any blade. "Only compared to some," she said.

He ignored her and moved to the other side of the boat.

By the time dawn arrived the black sailboat had nearly caught up to them. The early morning light allowed the men to see who was piloting it now: a figure, a man, dressed all in black. His boat seemed to be flying as it raced to catch up with them.

Frederick leaned against the side of the boat nervously. "Look! He's right on top of us." He frowned. "I wonder if he is using the same wind we are using."

Jonah was busy trying not to let his nervousness show. "Whoever he is, he's too late," he said with false bravado. He pointed ahead of them. "See? The Cliffs of Insanity."

Indeed, the cliffs before them looked like they deserved that name. They were sheer faces of rock, impossibly high and rising straight up out of the water. The two sailboats engaged in a wild race towards the cliffs, with the Man in Black gaining ground (so to speak) with every moment. He closed in fast, but not fast enough to reach them in time as Frederick maneuvered with expert precision straight at the Cliffs, their lead too great for the Man in Black to overcome.

Still, Jonah kept throwing glances behind them. "Hurry up!" he ordered harshly. "Move the thing." Then he seemed to realize that particular order would do no good. "Um…that other thing. Move it!"

Eventually he stopped trying to give orders and stared straight behind them instead. A triumphant grin crossed his face when they passed by a particular set of rocks and shored up close to the Cliffs. "We're safe," he said, victory coating every word. "Only Thommo is strong enough to go up our way – whoever he is, he'll have to sail around for hours until he finds a harbor."

Just like in the woods all the activity that occurred then was swift and expert, almost economical in its execution. Thommo secured a rope and with one great heave threw it up the cliff. It flew clear to the top and he dropped back down to the bottom of the boat to test it.

Frederick hurried up with a harness in his hands and strapped Thommo in. The giant grunted but otherwise didn't protest to being treated pretty much like a packhorse. Frederick secured Jonah and a struggling Naomi inside the harness before finally securing himself in it. All three of them were strapped to Thommo's back like baby monkeys on their mother.

With barely any noticeable effort at all Thommo started climbing up the rope, carrying them all along with him as he went.

The Man in Black reached the bottom of the Cliffs by the time Thommo and his passengers were more than halfway up. Naomi clutched tightly to the back of the giant, too completely terrified of the sheer vertical drop beneath them to even think of fighting back. If Thommo lost his footing, if the rope gave way, the drop down would kill them instantly.

Well, no, the drop wouldn't kill them. Hitting the rocks below sure would though.

The Man in Black, still hot in pursuit, leapt from his ship and grabbed onto the rope. He grunted in pain as his momentum sent the rope swinging and smashed him into the cliff wall, but apparently his recovery was quick, because in the next moment he started to climb. It was ridiculous. Absurd. He was impossibly far behind, and yet that didn't seem to trifle him at all the way he dealt with the rope. Hand flew over hand like lightning, like the only thing he had on his mind was catching up to the Sicilian and his group. Like that one goal was the most important thing in the world.

At just the moment that the Man in Black started to climb, Frederick happened look down.

"He's climbing the rope," he said in a tone of grudging respect. "And he's gaining on us."

Jonah stared down beneath them, his eyes nearly popping out of his head when he saw the rapidly approaching black blur. He spluttered. "Inconceivable!" He prodded Thommo hard in the side, and the giant merely grunted and increased his pace.

But no matter how quickly Thommo pulled them up the Man in Black cut deeply into their lead, until he was so close that sweat began to form on Jonah's forehead. "Faster!" he shrieked.

Thommo leaned his head away from the high-pitched noises Jonah was making in his left ear. "I thought I was going faster," he said, but started to move his arms more quickly anyway.

"You were supposed to be this colossus," Jonah snapped. His hands tightened against the harness with nerves. "You were this great legendary thing. _And yet he gains!_"

"Well, I'm carrying three people," Thommo pointed out, rather fairly. "And he's got only himself…"

Jonah cut off however he was going to end that sentence (_if _he was going to end that sentence, sometimes it was hard to tell with Thommo). "I do not accept excuses." He shook his head. "I'm just going to have to find myself a new giant, that's all."

Thommo was hurt. His distress made him slow down. "Don't say that, Jonah. Please."

The slowing of their pace just added more of an advantage to the Man in Black. He hadn't slowed down or showed signs of getting tired for the whole time he'd been climbing; if anything, he had sped up. Thommo's lead was almost non-existent.

That was too close for Jonah.

"Did I make it clear that your job is at stake?" he asked when it looked like the Man in Black was less than a hundred feet behind and gaining.

Thommo answered that by hauling them over the top of the cliff. Jonah leapt off at once and immediately pulled a knife from his belt and began sawing at the rope. Frederick ignored his 'leader' and helped the still-tied princess to her feet instead while Thommo stood around and waited for someone to tell him what to do. He took a good look at their surroundings while he waited. Most noticeable was a sprawl of old ruins nearby. Once they might have been some sort of fort but years of neglect and disuse had reduced them to rubble and random columns here and there.

Jonah cut through the last of the rope just as the Man in Black made it fifty feet from the top, perhaps even less. His dazzling speed had gotten him almost to the top in a third of the time it had taken Thommo to do the same. Whoever this man was, he was determined.

Nevertheless the rope slithered and whipped about, now attached to nothing, before it rolled itself off the edge of the cliff. Jonah's triumphant smirk returned and he clapped his hands together as if to say 'well, that's that!'.

Thommo, however, was standing at the edge of the cliff with Naomi and Frederick, all three of them peering over towards the water.

The giant whistled his appreciation and turned to Frederick, impressed. "He has very good arms."

Jonah was stunned. He scurried over to the others and looked down. There, suspended hundreds of feet above the churning waves and deathly rocks, the Man in Black desperately clung to life on the jagged cliff face.

"He didn't fall?" the Sicilian looked like he couldn't actually comprehend how that happened. "Inconceivable!"

"You keep using that word," Frederick said dryly, turning his head to frown at his boss. "I do not think it means what you think it means." He looked down again. "My God! He's climbing."

And so he was. It was slow going – sometimes a foot at a time, sometimes barely an inch, but the Man in Black was picking his way up the side of the cliff.

The group at the top could no longer do anything but stare.

It was Jonah who finally worked himself into action. "Whoever he is, he's obviously seen us with the Princess, and therefore must die," he said firmly. He motioned with his hand between Thommo and Naomi, "You, carry her." Then he turned to Frederick. "We'll head straight for the Guilder frontier. Catch up when he's dead. If he falls, fine. If not, the sword."

Frederick nodded and unconsciously moved his hand to the blade at his side. "I want to duel him left-handed," he said seriously, like this was something of great importance.

Jonah scowled. "You know what a hurry we're in."

"Well, it's the only way I can be satisfied!" Frederick argued. "If I use my right – " he made a disgusted scoffing noise, "– over too quickly."

"Oh, have it your way," Jonah spun on his heel and stalked off, throwing a hand motion over his head that very clearly stated he didn't give a damn how Frederick disposed of the Man in Black as long as he _was _disposed of.

The Man in Black, meanwhile, kept up his determined climb.

Thommo hesitated beside Frederick and looked down at the swordsman with real affection and concern. "You be careful," he said gravely. "People in masks cannot be trusted." Jonah called out to him and Thommo hurried off after the Sicilian, but not without one final concerned glance at his friend.

Frederick watched them go before he turned and peered down the cliffs at the Man in Black. He was still climbing; slowly, but climbing. The Spaniard watched for a few minutes, marvelling at both the inner and outer strength you needed to attempt such a climb, before he got bored. He wandered away. He paced restlessly. He shook his hands loose.

Frederick McClair was not one for waiting.

He pulled his sword free from its scabbard and started doing exercises, warming up his muscles and practicing a few of his carefully honed skills.

When he peered over the edge again the Man in Black was still climbing, maybe six inches closer to the top than the last time that Frederick looked.

The Spaniard sighed, sheathed his sword, and then began to talk. It was instant death if the Man in Black fell, but that didn't seem to bother him.

"Hello there," he hollered down.

The Man in Black peered up and grunted a little in acknowledgement.

Frederick was unperturbed. "Slow going?" he questioned.

"Look, I don't mean to be rude," the Man in Black called back acidly, "but this is not as easy as it looks. So I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me."

Frederick blinked. The Man in Black's voice sounded different than he'd imagined. Higher and lighter. A little fake, like the voice had been put upon him. He shrugged it off. The Man in Black could sound however he liked. "Sorry," he apologized.

"Thank you."

Frederick stepped away and drew his sword again, executing a few perfect thrusts and spins. After a few minutes he put his sword away again and went back to looking over the edge.

"I don't suppose you could speed things up?" he called hopefully.

There was an incredulous silence for a moment, and then the Man in Black called up flippantly, "If you're in such a hurry, you could lower a rope, or a tree branch, or find something useful to do."

Frederick considered that for a moment. Jonah never specified how he had to deal with the Man in Black, just that it had to be with his sword, and he couldn't very well use his sword while the man was hanging off a cliff. That was unsportsmanlike.

"I could do that," he said finally. "In fact, I've got some rope up here." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "But I do not think that you will accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you."

"That does put a damper on our relationship," the Man in Black agreed. He scuffled a bit against the edge before he found another handhold a few inches higher.

Frederick wasn't finished. "But I promise I will not kill you until you reach the top," he said.

"That's very comforting," was the light answer, "But I'm afraid you'll just have to wait."

"I hate waiting," Frederick sighed. "I could give you my word as a Spaniard."

"No good," the Man in Black replied immediately. "I've known too many Spaniards."

The Man in Black paused and allowed himself to hang off the edge of the cliff, feet dangling in space, as he rested and gathered his strength. Frederick appreciated the need for rest but it only delayed things further.

"You don't know any way you'll trust me?" he asked plaintively.

"Nothing comes to mind."

Frederick set his jaw and his eyes blazed with sudden conviction. When he spoke again his voice was steely and sincere in a way his conversation with the Man in Black hadn't been before. "I swear on the soul of my father, Leonardo McClair, you will reach the top alive."

There was a long pause before the Man in Black said, very quietly, "Throw me the rope."

Frederick's chest swelled with triumph and he dashed up to the rock the rope was originally tied to. The Man in Black's fingers slipped slightly and he scrambled a little bit to keep his hold on the cliff face. Frederick returned momentarily with a small coil of rope and hurled it over. The rope fell close to the Man in Black, who despite the promise stared at it dubiously for a moment before finally wrapping his hands around it and pushing off, suspending his body apart from the cliffs for a moment in the air.

Grunting with the effort, Frederick strained and forced his body away from the edge of the cliff, slowly and steadily helping the Man in Black rise through the early morning light until he could grip the edge of the cliff and pull himself over. The Man in Black crawled to safety and breathed heavily for a moment.

"Thank you," he said finally, pulling his sword free.

Frederick shook his head and took a step back, lifting his hands to show their emptiness. "We'll wait until you're ready," he said fairly.

Behind his mask the Man in Black blinked, clearly surprised, before he nodded. "Again. Thank you."

As the other man moved to sit on the boulder that once supported the rope, Frederick took the moment to study his opponent. The Man in Black was more like a boy in black, truth to be told. He was smaller than Frederick thought he would be given the sheer amount of guts it took to climb the Cliffs of Insanity without a rope. They don't call them the Cliffs of Insanity because they're reasonable.

He was also slighter, as well. Frederick knew you shouldn't always judge a book by its cover but he didn't honestly think this would be a fair fight. The Man in Black didn't even come up to his eye level.

As he watched, his opponent tugged off his leather boots and seemed amazed to see several large rocks tumble out. The Man in Black was, obviously, dressed all in black. Predictably it was a very pirate look: laced up black boots, black trousers, billowy black shirt laced in the front, and a black mask that covered the top half of his face and most of his head. He also wore gloves and instinctively Frederick find himself studying them.

"I do not mean to pry," he said seriously, "but you don't by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?"

The Man in Black glanced up – the question clearly baffled him. He had dark brown eyes behind that mask and they narrowed in confusion. "Do you always begin conversations this way?" he asked instead of answering.

Frederick frowned. "My father was slaughtered by a six-fingered man," he explained. "He was a great swordmaker, my father. And when the six-fingered man appeared and requested a special sword, my father took the job. He slaved a year before he was done."

The Spaniard unhooked the sword at his hip and passed it over to the Man in Black, who treated it with so much reverence and respect that Frederick found himself instantly liking the man. "I have never seen its equal," the man said as he turned it in his hands.

Frederick's face settled into lines of pain as he stared at the sword. "The six-fingered man returned and demanded it, but at one-tenth his promised price. My father refused. Without a word, the six-fingered man slashed him through the heart. I loved my father, so naturally I challenged his murderer to a duel." The pause was long and painful. "I failed. The six-fingered man did leave me alive with the six-fingered sword, but he gave me these." He reached up a hand to touch his scars.

The Man in Black watched him tell the story. "How old were you?" he prompted.

"I was eleven years old," Frederick answered. "When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing. So the next time we meet I will not fail. I will go up to the six-fingered man and say, 'Hello, my name is Frederick McClair. You killed my father. Prepare to die.'"

The Man in Black whistled appreciatively. "You've done nothing but study swordplay?" he asked.

Frederick shrugged one shoulder diffidently. "More pursuit than study lately. You see, I cannot find him. It's been twenty years now. I am starting to lose confidence. I just work for Jonah to pay the bills. There's not a lot of money in revenge."

The Man in Black rose to his feet and handed the sword back. "Well, I certainly hope you find him someday."

Frederick took it back gratefully and nodded. "You are ready, then?"

His opponent shrugged. "Whether I am or not, you've been more than fair."

Frederick suddenly found himself filled with sadness. He had never hated his job more than when faced with this task. "You seem a decent fellow," he said regretfully. "I hate to kill you."

The Man in Black walked away a few paces and turned, unsheathing his sword as he did so. The smirk that curled up the edges of his mouth was just this side of mischievous. "You seem a decent fellow," he answered back. "I hate to die."

"Begin!"

What started was one of the greatest sword fights in modern storytelling (the other happened later on in this story) and right from the beginning it was different from anything Frederick had fought before. There was no sword-crossing or flashy 'en garde' nonsense.

No, the two athletes circled each other. One would feint, the other would counter. Feint – counter – feint – counter; all done in silence. Frederick moved to the right and they started to circle each other, each one studying the other carefully for an opening.

Finally Frederick lifted his point a little higher and the Man in Black correctly interpreted it as a sign for the duel to begin in earnest. Their swords clashed and crossed and clashed again. The sound of the metal meeting happened so fast and often that in the empty air it sounded like one continual noise. Frederick pressed forward and forced the Man in Black back up a rocky incline.

When he spoke, the Spaniard's voice was thrilled. "You're using the Bonetti's defence against me, eh?" he questioned, like a boy in a schoolyard who had just learned a new trick.

The Man in Black nodded almost imperceptibly. "I thought it fitting," he answered, not nearly as out of breathe as Frederick thought he would be, "considering the rocky terrain."

"Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro," Frederick continued. And then his style shifted. His grip on the sword changed, his body dropped lower, and he made more swinging cuts.

The Man in Black scrambled to cope as best he could. "Naturally," he said, his breath coming in great bursts now. Then he abruptly shifted his style as well, and began matching Frederick blow for blow again. "But I find Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro, don't you?"

He found himself perched at the edge of the elevated castle ruin they'd been fighting around, still exchanging blow for blow with Frederick. With nowhere else to go the Man in Black jumped down to the sand.

Frederick stared down at him. "Unless the enemy has studied is Agrippa," he pointed out. And then, with the grace of an Olympian, he tossed himself off the edge of perch, somersaulted clean over the Man in Black's head, and landed facing his opponent. It was an impressive move. "Which I have."

The two fighters began almost flying across the rocky terrain, neither losing their balance, neither coming close to stumbling. The battle raged with incredible finesse, first one and then the other gaining advantage, until it became clear that this was more than two mere swordsmen fighting a simple duel.

As the battle continued Frederick quite suddenly found himself drawing closer to the deadly edge of the Cliffs of Insanity. He upped his ducks and feints and slashes in response, and was dearly surprised to find that the Man in Black simply kept hold of his advantage and continually forced Frederick closer and closer to death.

Strangely, this delighted the Spaniard. "You are wonderful!" he exclaimed happily.

The Man in Black lifted his hand in a little salute. "Thank you," he said. "I've worked hard to become so."

Frederick was almost at the cliff, the Man in Black's relentless swordplay driving him towards it more aggressively than ever. "I admit it," he said with a grin. "You are better than I am."

Beneath his mask the Man in Black looked more confused than ever. His swordplay never paused, though. "Then why are you smiling?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Because I know something you don't."

This time the suspicion was in full force when the Man in Black asked, "And what is that?"

Frederick's smiled grew to epic proportions. "I am not left-handed." With a quick twist of his wrist he threw the six-fingered sword into his right hand and almost immediately the tide of the battle turned in the opposite direction.

The Man in Black was shocked. His sword began to move in a whirl of steel as he tried to do everything he could to keep Frederick at the cliff's edge, but it was no use. Slowly and relentlessly he was forced to retreat until Frederick gained complete control of the battle and drove the Man in Black towards desperation.

Their blades were moving so face they became almost invisible in a blur of motion as Frederick began to up his attack even further, switching styles faster than he breathed.

To the side of them a rocky staircase retreated up to a turret-shaped plateau and the Man in Black retreated up them like mad because it was impossible to stop Frederick at this point. The man made every feint he could seem to think of, tried every thrust and style, and still nothing could touch the Spaniard. Finally he had to breathe out his surprise.

"You're amazing," he shouted over the clash of steel.

Frederick did not allow his pride to get in the way of the fight. "I should be after twenty years," he called back.

With a cry of pain the Man in Black was smashed against a stone pillar and pinned there under the six-fingered sword. His dark brown eyes widened as he stared at the blade and they flickered over to Frederick. "There's something I should tell you," he hollered.

Frederick paused long enough to say, "Tell me."

Now the Man in Black's smile was definitely mischievous. "I am not left-handed either."

He twisted and switched sword hands, and the battle was joined evenly again. Frederick was amazed when he found himself forced down the steps again. He began to switch styles again, going first one and then another at lightning speed, and still the Man in Black matched him.

Before he can comprehend quite what was happening, the six-fingered sword was knocked clear out of Frederick's hand. Frederick retreated back a few steps and turned, diving from the stairs and grabbing onto a moss-covered bar suspended over the archway. He swung out and landed, scrambling over to his sword. The Man in Black watched him do so and then casually tossed his own sword down where it stuck perfectly in the landing before he not only copied Frederick, but improved the move quite a bit more gracefully. He dove towards the bar, swung completely out over it like a circus performer and dismounted with a backflip.

Frederick could only stare in awe. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.

The Man in Black's smile was sad and bitter. "No one of consequence," he answered.

"I must know."

A shrug. "Get used to disappointment."

Frederick frowned before he shrugged back. "Okay." Then he lunged forward and moved into the fight like lightning, slashing and thrusting and darting all around so fluidly it almost seemed like a single movement.

It began to get to the point where something terrible started to press on the inside of Frederick's chest. He had done everything he could against this man, tried every style and every manoeuvre he had ever been taught, and still it wasn't good enough. He began to realize quite suddenly that he, Frederick McClair of Spain, was going to lose this fight.

Just as he thought that the six-fingered sword was sent flying from his hand again. Frederick stood helpless for a moment before he knelt down on his knees and bowed his head.

His eyes screwed shut as he said: "Kill me quickly."

The Man in Black made a scoffing noise. "I would as soon destroy a stained glass window as an artist like yourself," he said, still in that odd affected tone of voice. "However, since I can't have you following me either – " He shifted his grip and thunked Frederick on the back of the head with his heavy sword handle. Frederick keeled over immediately, unconscious before he was even laid out on the ground.

"Please understand," the Man in Black said to the unconscious form of one of the greatest swordsmen alive. "I hold you in the highest respect." And then he grabbed his scabbard and took off after the Princess.

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><p><strong>An: Next up: Thommo gets to take his swing at this Man in Black who is very determined, and distinctly un-manlike... ;)**


	4. A Giant and a Giant Ego

**Why hello there. It's nice to see everyone again. I'm so glad that everyone seems to be enjoying reading this as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Anyway this was written across a few days and across a few countries. I am more than a little jetlagged as speak. And yet PrincessBride!Naomily wins out, as it always should. Un-beta'd as usual so any mistakes are mine. **

**Shira: I _have_ seen Men in Tights actually. A Naomily version, you say? Hmmm. Hmmmmm.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Skins. Or The Princess Bride. Unless you're talking about owning both in DVDs and book form and then yes, I do have those...**

**Please keep your hands and feet inside the crack-fic at all times. And enjoy. **

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><p>"Inconceivable!"<p>

Unbeknownst to both Frederick and the Man in Black, Jonah and the rest of the group had watched the whole thing from a narrow mountain path above them.

Jonah turned to Thommo and motioned for the princess. "Give her to me," he ordered, grabbing her and starting off up the path again. "Catch up with us quickly."

Thommo started to panic. "What do I do?"

"Finish him!" Jonah ordered impatiently. "Finish him your way."

"Oh, good, my way. Thank you, Jonah." There was a tiny pause as he contemplated that. "Which way is my way?"

Jonah rolled his eyes. "Pick up one of those rocks," he said, waving his arm towards a pile of rocks next to a large boulder nearby, "and in a few minutes the Man in Black will come running around the bend. The minute his head is in view, hit it with the rock!"

With no further ado the Sicilian gripped Naomi's arm tighter and dragged them both away in a hurry.

Thommo watched them go with a little frown. "My way's not very sportsmanlike," he said softly to himself. Nevertheless he grabbed one of the rocks and shuffled behind the boulder to wait.

Not too long afterwards the Man in Black came racing up the mountain trail. He skidded to a stop just before the bend in the trail, as if he could somehow sense his imminent danger, but after a moment of standing still on the path with no sounds to tip him off he started forward around the bend again.

A rock thundered past his ear and shattered on a boulder inches in front of his face.

Thommo moved forward and blocked the path, already tossing another large rock back and forth between his hands as if it weighed nothing more than a pebble. "I did that on purpose," he said slowly. "I don't have to miss."

The Man in Black gulped audibly. "I believe you," he said, and Thommo heard the same strange affectation to his voice that Frederick had already noticed earlier. "So what happens now?"

Thommo frowned again. He did that a lot when he was trying to think things through properly. This Man in Black had beaten Frederick so he must have been good, but boy was this Man in Black _tiny _compared to himself. Thommo wasn't sure if he could fight him morally. Then he remembered the look on Jonah's face when he yelled at them in the boat and he steeled his resolve. Fear won out over the hesitance to crush someone so little.

"We face each other as God intended," he said after a few moments, remembering that the Man in Black had asked a question. "Sportsmanlike. No tricks, no weapons. Skill against skill alone."

The Man in Black's smile was almost mocking. "You mean, you'll put down your rock and I'll put down my sword and we'll try to kill each other like civilized people."

Thommo didn't like being mocked, but something about the Man in Black seemed more playful and less painful than Jonah. "I could kill you now," he said gently. He lifted his rock to get ready to throw it but the Man in Black stopped him with a shake of his head.

He stripped off his sword and scabbard and tossed them onto the ground before he approached the giant. "Frankly," he said dryly, "I think the odds are slightly in your favor at hand fighting."

Thommo shrugged and the earth moved seismically. "It's not my fault being the biggest and the strongest," he said, flipping his rock nonchalantly behind him where it shattered against another stone. "I don't even exercise."

Any outsider who looked at the fight about to take place would have called it ridiculous (or called some sort of authority because _that poor Man in Black was going to get crushed and won't anybody do something_). Thommo normally towered over everybody but he eclipsed the Man in Black completely.

There was a moment between them where they both paused and contemplated whether they were actually going to fight. And then the Man in Black lunged forward and slammed into Thommo's chest. He landed punches and kicks, tried different kinds of grips and rolls, and generally tried to wrestle Thommo to the ground using pure determination. It was like watching a terrier take on a mastiff. Thommo just stood there and admired the scenery around him.

Finally the Man in Back took several steps away and simply stared at the giant with his arms crossed across his chest that on anyone else would have been called a pout. "Look are you just fiddling around with me or what?" he asked, and strangely his voice got higher in his anger.

Thommo's smile was kind. "I just want you to feel you're doing well," he said quietly. "I hate for people to die embarrassed."

They squared off against each other again and this time Thommo actually moved, lunging forward with surprising speed for someone his size and reaching his arm around quickly to try to grab at the Man in Black. The smaller man dropped to his knees and spun about, slipping between the giant's legs.

Thommo blinked. "You're quick."

"And a good thing, too," the Man in Black answered breathlessly.

Thommo turned himself around to prepare for another attack. He cocked his head to the side as he and his opponent studied each other. "Why do you wear a mask?" he asked bluntly. "Were you burned by acid or something like that?"

This time the Man in Black's smirk was more amused than mocking. "Oh no," he said lightly. "It's just that they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future."

The giant considered this for a moment and seemed to be contemplating whether he wanted to laugh or not. Apparently he voted against laughter because in the next second he attacked, and if he moved quickly before it was nothing compared to the blinding speed he applied this time. The Man in Black tried his duck-and-escape method again and when Thommo anticipated that he twisted free and jumped to his feet. Up one boulder, over another, and abruptly he was hanging off of Thommo's back with his arms locked around the giant's windpipe and squeezing.

Thommo stood up straight and the man on his back swayed like a child's toy but kept his grip. "I just figured out why you give me so much trouble," Thommo said, his tone of voice suggesting it was quite an epiphany. Instead of going on with his realization he charged towards one of the boulders instead and just before he reached it he spun his body so the weight of the charge and the crash against the wall was taken by the Man in Black instead.

The pain was enormous and a lesser person would have let go immediately. The power in that one charge was terrible, like being slammed into the rock by an elephant. Yet still the Man in Black clung to his grip on Thommo's throat. In fact his arms didn't leave their spot once when he continued on the topic Thommo had brought up and asked, "Why is that, do you think?"

"Well, I haven't fought just one person for so long," Thommo answered. His voice started to sound a little strained. "I've been specializing in groups. Battling gangs for charities, that kind of thing."

Thommo tried his charge again. It was slower this time, and he didn't slam the Man in Black with the same amount of force, but it was still enough to make the Man in Black doubt for one moment. For one second it looked like the man would simply let go of Thommo's windpipe and crumple to the ground, but he didn't.

Instead he kept up their conversation.

"Why should that make a difference?" he asked.

"Well," Thommo went to go scratch his head but he found he didn't have enough energy. It never even occurred to him that perhaps the Man in Black wanted him to talk so he didn't try to smash him against the rock wall again. His voice was decidedly weaker when he answered, "…you see, you use different moves when you're fighting half a dozen people than when you only have to be worried about one."

He slammed the Man in Black backwards against the boulder again, but the power was greatly diminished. He started to notice that it was harder and harder to get air, and he went down on a knee like that would somehow help him regain his lost breaths. He tried to stand and even made it halfway up before he fell back to his knees.

The Man in Black held on until Thommo stopped trying to crawl away from the suffocating hands around his windpipe and lay still on the ground instead. Very quickly he jumped off the giant's back and turned him over so he could press an ear against the big man's chest. The giant heart inside the gargantuan chest beat a steady rhythm in his ear and he nodded to himself.

"I don't envy you the headache you will have when you wake," the Man in Black said, patting the prone body on the ground affectionately. "But, in the meantime, rest well," he paused a beat and chuckled before he added, "and dream of large women."

He nimbly scooped up his sword with his foot and caught it mid-air as he continued his mad dash up the mountain.

_**Somewhere far behind the Sicilian and the Man in Black…**_

Prince Cook slipped his boot into a footprint in the sand.

Count Foster watched him do so from his vantage point mounted on his horse, and behind the count a half-dozen of Prince Cook's finest warriors also sat mounted and ready. They watched as their prince began to place his feet in weird positions, almost recreating a dance that occurred across the ground at their feet. A strange dance, for sure, with most unnatural footwork.

Until the prince raised his hand and mimed a sword.

"There was a mighty duel," he said decisively. Maybe the prince wasn't the greatest hunter in the world, the way that maybe Naomi wasn't the most beautiful woman. But then again, maybe he was, and in that moment he recreated the battle in his mind. "It ranged all over. They were both masters."

Count Foster nudged his mount forward and squinted down at the barely discernable marks at their feet. "Who won?" he questioned finally when his eyes refused to make that connection for him. "How did it end?"

Prince Cook knelt down at the spot where Frederick had once lay unconscious. The man was no longer lying there but the marks were clear. He ran a hand over the dirt and his eyes followed a trail only he could see. "The loser ran off alone," he said finally. Then he turned and pointed in the direction that Jonah and Thommo had gone in. "The winner followed those footprints towards Guilder!"

"Shall we track them both?" the Count asked.

"The loser is nothing," the Prince dismissed Frederick from the equation with a wave of his hand. "Only the princess matters." He turned to look at his mounted warriors. "Clearly this was all planned by warriors of Guilder. We must be ready for whatever lies ahead."

Foster's horse danced away from the angry growls of the warriors and closer to the Prince. The Count took advantage of this to ask: "Could this be a trap?"

Prince Cook vaulted onto his horse with ease and gathered up the reins in one hand. "I always think everything could be a trap," he said. "Which is why I'm still alive." Then he spurred his horse into a gallop.

_**Far ahead of the prince and his men… **_

The Man in Black crested the peak of the mountain that Jonah had drug Naomi up at a run and slowed down immediately at the sight before him.

Jonah had laid out an impressive picnic on the flat grass. Two goblets and a wineskin rested on top of a tablecloth surrounded by some cheese and apples, looking for all the world like a young couple had just decided to up and sit down for lunch there that day. It was set on a lovely spot high on the edge of the mountain path with a view all the way back down to the sea if you wished to look at it. It was picturesque.

Except for Jonah sitting at the setting and munching happily away on an apple with Naomi bound and blindfolded next to him. He had a knife to her throat.

"So it is down to you," he greeted the Man in Black as he appeared. "And it is down to me."

The Man in Black nodded and drifted forward slowly, his hands out slightly in front of him in a way reminiscent of how you would approach a wild dog.

It was a good approach. The moment he took a step forward Jonah pressed the long knife more viciously against Naomi's unprotected throat. "If you wish her dead, by all means keep moving forward," he said calmly.

"Let me explain," the Man in Black began.

"There's nothing to explain!" Jonah shouted back, switching gears frighteningly fast. "You're trying to kidnap what I've rightfully stolen."

Perhaps if there hadn't been a knife involved in the equation the Man in Black would have made a snarky remark at that. As it was he held his tongue about the twisted logic of that sentence and instead spoke in a low, soothing voice. Naomi moved and twisted against her bonds harder when he spoke; she didn't recognize the voice, and yet something told her she should. "Perhaps an arrangement can be reached."

The Man in Black kept walking forwards in slow, deliberate motions.

"There will be no arrangement," Jonah said. "And you're killing her!" He jabbed harder with the knife and Naomi gasped in pain as it started to cut into her skin.

The moment that pained little whimper escaped Naomi's mouth the Man in Black stopped moving like his feet had become cemented to the ground.

"But if there can be no arrangement then we are at an impasse," he said logically.

Jonah nodded, accepting the use of logic far more readily than he would have accepted threats of violence. "I'm afraid so," he agreed. "I can't compete with you physically. And you're no match for my brains."

There was the sudden impression that the Man in Black was raising an eyebrow beneath his mask. "You're that smart?" he asked with a hint of calculated disbelief in his voice.

"Let me put it this way," Jonah said with a sly smirk. "Have you ever heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates?"

"Yes."

"Morons."

The Man in Black whistled, although it wasn't entirely clear whether he was being serious or mocking. "Really?" he questioned. "In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits."

Jonah looked suddenly intrigued. "For the princess?" he prodded.

The Man in Black nodded.

"To the death?"

Another nod.

Jonah smiled cruelly and pulled the knife away from Naomi's throat. She breathed easier with the steel far away from her windpipe and, if anyone had cared to look, the Man in Black did as well. "I accept," Jonah said.

The Man in Black clapped his hands together. "Good," he said. "Then pour the wine." He sat down in front of one of the goblets. Jonah took the seat across from him.

As Jonah went about pouring the same amount of wine into both goblets, the Man in Black rooted around in his clothes until he pulled a small packet filled with powder from a hidden pocket. He handed it over when the Sicilian had finished his task.

"Inhale this," the Man in Black instructed, "but do not touch."

Jonah took the packet and cautiously sniffed along the top. He frowned in confusion. "I smell nothing," he said with a hint of accusation in his voice.

The Man in Black carefully took the packet back. "What you do not smell is called iocane powder," he explained. "It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadlier poisons known to man."

"Hmm," Jonah made a pleased noise and eyed the packet with much more interest than before. He watched, like a child on Christmas, as the Man in Black took both goblets and turned away. Not thirty seconds later he turned back around again with both goblets in hand and dropped the now-empty iocane packet in front of Jonah.

Quickly and skilfully the Man in Black rotated the goblets around in front of them like a game of 'guess where the queen is' and then he carefully placed one goblet in front of Jonah and the other in front of himself.

"All right," he said. "Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right and who is dead."

Jonah's eyes glinted with perverse amusement. "But it's so simple," he gloated. "All I have to do is divine from what I know of you. Are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet, or his enemy's?"

The Sicilian cocked his head to the side and studied the stranger in front of him. He could already tell that something was wrong with his 'Man in Black' persona. Something was skewed. The person in front of him was playing a part, and it was the challenge to determine which part that was: hero or villain? He didn't know if the man was even from Florion. There was no discernible accent to his voice beyond an odd inflection. No matter, Jonah would win this game and then it would make no difference who or what the Man in Black was because he would be very dead.

"Now," he tapped his chin as he began, "a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I'm not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you must have known I was not a great fool; you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me."

The Man in Black's hands twitched nervously. "You've made your decision then?" he asked a little too quickly.

Jonah snorted. "Not remotely. Because iocane comes from Australia, as everyone knows. And Australia is entirely peopled with criminals. And criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me. So I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you."

"Truly, you have a dizzying intellect," the Man in Black interjected.

Jonah was so wrapped up in his mind he didn't even detect the hint of sarcasm in his opponent's voice. "Wait till I get going!" he crowed. "Where was I?"

"Australia."

"Yes! Australia. And you must have suspected that I would have known the powder's origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me."

The Man in Black was very obviously nervous by that point. "You're just stalling now.

Jonah cackled. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" He stared intently at the Man in Black then. "You've beaten my giant, which means you're exceptionally strong. So you could have put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your strength to save you. So I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you've also beaten my Spaniard, which means you must have studied. And, in studying, you must have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me."

Jonah's sense of pleasure skyrocketed with every sentence that came out of his mouth, at the same time that the Man in Black's confidence disappeared.

"You're trying to trick me into giving away something," he snapped irritably. "It won't work."

"It _has _worked," Jonah corrected, triumphant. "You've given everything away. I know where the poison is."

"Then make your choice," the Man in Black ordered in a tone of voice that sounded very much like false bravado.

"I will," Jonah assured him. "And I choose – " He abruptly stopped in midsentence and pointed at something behind the Man in Black. "What in the world can that be?"

The Man in Black whipped around to look, the half of his face not hidden by his mask creased in confusion. "What? Where? I don't see anything."

While he was turned Jonah very quickly switched their goblets.

"Oh, well, I – I could have sworn I saw something," he stuttered when the Man in Black turned around again. "No matter." He couldn't help himself. He started laugh.

"What's so funny?" the Man in Black asked, now past the point of being terribly confused.

"I'll tell you in a minute," Jonah said between chuckles. "First, let's drink – me from my glass, and you from yours."

He picked up his goblet at the same time that the Man in Black picked up his. They both mock saluted each other and raised their glasses to drink. Jonah hesitated a moment, just long enough for the Man in Black to swallow his wine first, before Jonah allowed himself to drink from his own cup.

A smile started to steal across the Man in Black's face. "You guessed wrong," he said.

Jonah simply started roaring with laughter. It was all too much to keep in anymore. "You only think I guessed wrong!" he shrieked, his voice rising with each gale of laughter. "That's what's so funny! I switched the glasses when your back was turned, you fool."

The Man in Black simply sat there in silence. There was nothing he could say.

"You fell victim to one of the classic blunders," Jonah gloated. "The most famous is 'Never get involved in a land war in Asia'. But only slightly less well known is this," he slapped his hands against his knees and shouted the last part like a well-known catchphrase, "'Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!'"

He fell into fits of laughter, afterwards, a maniacal gleam in his eyes as he watched for signs of the Man in Black's approaching death. He whooped and roared and cackled and was generally the merriest man to ever drop dead on the spot.

The Man in Black leapt up immediately and stepped around the corpse. He seemed to notice that the bonds had been chafing and rubbing her wrists raw because he was gentle when he cut Naomi free with Jonah's own knife. Even gentler hands pulled the blindfold down around her neck. Surprisingly gentle, actually, for evil pirate intent on kidnapping her as well, and probably throwing raping and plundering in for good measure.

As soon as the blindfold was off their eyes met, brown against blue on top of the cliff where she had almost died, and probably would almost die several more times before the day was out if her luck had anything to say about it. She didn't recognize him. She couldn't. He was a pirate.

She _couldn't_ recognize him, and yet something told her she _did_.

The Man in Black pulled her easily to her feet. The motion was familiar, too. Damn him. Who _was _he?

"Who are you?" she asked, because she think of anything else she wanted to say more in that moment.

The minute the words were out of her mouth he changed. His eyes became harder than any stone, his muscles tightened up, and his jaw clenched together so much that a muscle in it twitched. He turned away from her -

_Even that action was familiar, but how in the world would she be familiar with the actions of a pirate when he was angry?_

- and said towards the wind whistling over the cliff: "I am no one to be trifled with." His voice was clipped, cold, and (as Frederick, Thommo, and Jonah could verify) oddly inflected. "That is all you ever need to know."

He grabbed her roughly by the arm and she was startled to see he was actually a few inches shorter than her. Not a terribly menacing height, for a pirate (then again he had just beaten a wizard swordfighter, a giant, and one of the brightest men in the world, so maybe it wasn't his _height _that struck fear into people). Still…_come on, Naomi_, something in the back of her mind seemed to whisper, _you are cleverer than this. _But any possible answers were actually quite…_im_possible, and so she didn't dwell.

She looked behind her instead, at the prone form of Jonah they were leaving behind. A final glance at her one-time captor. "To think," she mused out loud, "all that time it was your cup that was poisoned."

The Man in Black didn't even look backwards. "They were both poisoned," he said shortly. "I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder."

And with that he started moving at a faster pace and dragged her roughly along behind him.

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><p><strong>Next up: We finally get a glimpse at the face behind the masked savior. But only after Naomi gets a little rough with him. And not even in a fun way. <strong>


	5. Flight and Fight

**A/n: Sorry for the bit of a delay in update but I was in the another part of the country visiting my favorite person in the world. Just fyi? THE SOUTHERN PART OF THE COUNTRY IS HOT AS HELL. Dear Lord. Anyway here's the latest installment. There is a direct quote from the book in here, I'll identify it in the a/n at the end for those of you who haven't read the book. It's pretty obvious XD. Un-beta'd as always so all mistakes are mine. Please enjoy the pun that is the title of this chapter. I did :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Skins or the Princess Bride. I really wish I did.**

**Please keep your hands and feet inside of the crack-fic at all times. And enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Somewhere behind our heroes…<strong>

On the mountain path where the Man in Black had managed to defeat Thommo, Prince Cook knelt on the ground for almost twenty minutes inspecting every disturbed piece of dirt and smashed rock. Finally he leapt to his feet with a triumphant grin.

"Someone has beaten a giant!" he announced. His voice turned low and dangerous as he leapt onto his horse with so much force that it reared once and pawed at the air. "There will be great suffering in Guilder if she dies."

**With Naomi and the Man in Black…**

The Man in Black dragged Naomi along behind him forcefully, not stopping or slowing down when the princess stumbled over the rocky terrain. When it looked like she was about the collapse from exhaustion he finally stopped and let go of her. It was such a sudden motion she almost fell again.

"Catch your breath," he ordered, his voice strained and harsh.

Naomi sat down on a nearby boulder and gasped in great breaths of air. She glared at the Man in Black as she did so just so he knew that her suffering was his fault. It didn't seem to bother him.

"If you release me," she started, and had to stop every few words to drag in more air, "what you ask for ransom…you'll get it, I promise you…"

The Man in Black laughed. It was such a sudden and violent sound that Naomi almost leapt off her boulder. "And what is that worth, the promise of a woman?" he asked mockingly. "You're very funny, Highness."

That stung. Naomi drew herself up to her full height, which she was again surprised to realize was above the Man in Black. He had such a big presence that it always seemed like he should be taller than he was. And his eyes. Something bothered her about that constant steady gaze. Something that said she should recognize something about those eyes and for some reason didn't…

"I was giving you a chance," she snapped, both her pride and (inexplicably) her feelings injured. "No matter where you take me there's no greater hunter than Prince Cook." She forced pride into her voice, even though feeling proud of Prince Cook and his hunting abilities was never a thought that had crossed her mind before. "He could track a falcon on a cloudy day. He can find you."

The Man in Black laughed again. This time is sounded bitter. So did his voice when he sniped at her, "You think your dearest love will save you?"

"I never said he was my dearest love," Naomi responded automatically. "And yes, he will save me. That I know."

"You admit to me you do not love your fiancé?" the Man in Black's voice hovered somewhere between disbelieving and snappish and his smirk turned downward and hard.

Naomi shrugged. "He knows I do not love him." Their lack of love was mutual and inconsequential to the question of whether or not they would still get married. Of course they would. Naomi was sure that there were plenty of people that married without love, and maybe even without like, but she had never thought that she would be one of them. Then again she had always thought that when she married it would be to her redheaded love. A lot of things in Naomi's life weren't going the way she thought they would.

Like being kidnapped, for instance. Twice.

"'Are not capable of love' is what you mean," the Man in Black corrected her.

The metaphorical knife in her chest was back. It was a pain Naomi was well familiar with by this point; it occurred any time some great memory of Emily came up. Those days she sat in her room she had decided to harden her heart against emotion at all. Some people called her cold, some called her emotionless, and yes she both, but it was out of self-defense. Her heart had been so ripped apart that it had no idea how to put itself back together and instead had simply gathered the pieces and put them somewhere where they couldn't be hurt again.

But with the knife came anger. Who was this man in black clothes who thought he knew everything about her? He knew _nothing _about what she had been through. _He _was the one who was not capable of love, not she.

Her eyes were like blue fire when they glared at him and color rose to her cheeks. For a moment she looked like the Naomi of old, just before she would snap out some inconsequential chore for Emily to do just so she could get an 'as you wish' and a smile.

"I have loved more deeply than a killer like you could ever dream," she said.

The Man in Black whipped around, fist cocked back. Naomi tried not to flinch and only partially succeeded. "That was a warning, Highness," he said coldly. Every muscle in his body was so tense he looked about two seconds from simply flying apart with the pressure or letting loose and whaling on her anyway. "The next time my hand flies on its own. For where I come from, there are penalities when a woman lies."

Naomi's glare intensified, but she wisely chose not to answer.

**With Prince Cook and his men…**

The Prince stood at the head of the picnic and picked out every detail with his eyes. The fallen goblet and the upright one, the drop of blood on the long knife next to the Sicilian's body, the carefully sawed through rope that once bound Naomi's hands and feet, and the packet partially hidden under one corner of the blanket.

He knelt down next to the body and laid one hand against it, cautiously checking for life. It was long cold. He scooped up the empty packet and sniffed it experimentally before tossing it back to Count Foster with a careless flick of his wrist.

"Iocane," he said, and the Count dropped the packet reflexively from where he had been about to dip his finger in. "I'd bet my life on it." He straightened and motioned down the trail ahead of them. "And there are the Princess's footprints. She is alive, or was an hour ago."

He pulled himself effortlessly onto his horse and looked to the horizon with a strange light in his handsome eyes. "If she is otherwise when I find her, I shall be very put out."

**Some way ahead of the Prince…**

Naomi simply dropped to the ground when the Man in Black released her again. She just had no strength to stand anymore. Honestly she was a little disgusted with herself and her stamina; back in her farm days she wouldn't have been on the near brink of exhaustion after all of this. Tired, most definitely, but not barely able to keep up. Becoming a Princess had weakened her. She didn't like it (Naomi didn't like a whole lot about being a princess).

The Man in Black sat down on the ground and leaned carelessly against a boulder across from her. He kicked a nearby rock and it flew several feet in the air before falling down the ravine next to them. The ravine was steep and almost as sheer as a cliff face, the drop sharp and sort of terrifying before it reached the floor and became completely flat. Trekking across the floor of the ravine would be absurdly easy; it was getting to the bottom that would be the fun part.

"Rest, Highness," he ordered again.

Naomi stared at him, halfway to a glare but too tired to actually work up to that. "I know who you are," she said tonelessly. "Your cruelty reveals everything."

The Man in Black didn't respond and started to pull at pieces of grass around him instead. Even this small gesture of mindless boredom triggered something at the back of her mind. She ignored it.

"You're the Dread Pirate Roberts," she pushed on. "Admit it."

"With pride," the Man in Black answered, bowing at his waist with as much of a flourish as he could accomplish from his laid-back position. "What can I do for you?"

"You can die slowly cut into a thousand pieces."

The Man in Black faked a wince and put a hand over his heart. "Hardly complimentary, Your Highness," he said with a bit of exaggerated hurt in his voice. "Why loose your venom on me?"

Naomi cut her eyes away from him and out over the ravine. He didn't deserve to see her crying, and tears always came when bright brown eyes flashed through her mind. It was practically a Pavlovian response by now.

"You killed my love," she said quietly.

The Man in Black watched her closely. "It's possible," he said lightly. "I kill a lot of people. Who was this love of yours? Another Prince like this one? Ugly and rich and scabby?"

Her hatred of the man across from her miraculously kept the tears she could feel at bay. It was a small blessing. "No," she shook her head vehemently. "It was a girl. A farm girl," a small smile worked itself on her face without her permission. "Poor. Poor and perfect, with hair the color of fire and the brightest eyes in the world."

Naomi's fists clenched against the boulder she was sitting on until her knuckles turned white and her voice lowered with the effort it took to keep her emotions at bay. "On the high seas your ship attacked," she continued. "And the Dread Pirate Roberts never takes prisoners."

"I can't afford to make exceptions," the Man in Black explained condescendingly, like a teacher to a small child. "One word leaks out that a pirate has gone soft and people begin to disobey you." He leaned back all the way and casually crossed his arms behind his head. "And then it's nothing but work, work, work all the time."

"You mock my pain!" she accused. Her hands dug into the dirt and hit a stick which she grabbed and held onto until her grip was almost painful. If she wasn't so sure that it meant certain death she would have attacked him by now.

"Life is pain, Highness," the Man in Black scoffed. "Anyone who says differently is selling something." He took a moment to make a big show of pretending to think. "I remember this farm girl of yours, I think," he said finally. "This would be, what, five years ago?"

Naomi nodded reluctantly.

His smirk twisted back. "Does it bother you to hear?"

It was excruciating.

"Nothing you can say will upset me," she said levelly instead.

The Man in Black shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. "I can't say I wasn't surprised to find a woman on board," he said. "She wasn't going to die at first. Can't fault you for taste, at least. Pretty little thing. I was going to take her onto the ship."

The stick snapped in her hand. She'd gotten the implication. The Man in Black noticed and his eyes darted down to her hand, where her nails were digging so hard into her palm she was sure when she eventually loosened her fist there would be blood. For half a second, and only just that long, a strange look crossed his face, but it was gone before she could identify the emotion in it. She had half a mind to attack him at the second; she was almost positive she would get a few solid whacks into his face before he killed her. But she hesitated. Because on one hand, yes, this was the man who had killed her love. But on the other hand this man was offering her, cruelly and mockingly, of course, but still offering, the one thing she had never had before: knowledge of how Emily had died. That had haunted her. Had she suffered? Was there much pain? Did she know it was coming or had she slept peacefully through it? In the end her need to know won out.

The Man in Black's voice was a little shaky when he went on. Naomi liked to think maybe he knew how close he was to losing an eye. "But pretty little things have a tendency to cause trouble," he said. "She died well, that should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering." His eyes fixated on some point over her shoulder, like he was looking back to that day. "She simply said, 'please. Please, I need to live.'" He locked eyes with her again. That niggling feeling in the back of her skull returned. "It was the 'please' that caught my memory."

He took a moment to roll a stone between his fingers, and then he flicked it towards her in a manner that would be playful if she saw it happen with another man. "I asked her what was so important for her. 'True love,' she replied." The mocking lilt was back in his voice. "And then she spoke of a girl of surpassing beauty and faithfulness." A casual little hand motion of dismissal in her direction. "I can only assume she meant you. You should bless me for destroying her before she found out what you really are."

Naomi's voice was so cold icicles should have been dripping off her lips. "And what am I?" she asked.

The Man in Black leapt to his feet in one fluid, sharp motion. The bitter laugh was back. "Faithfulness, she talked of, madam." He said in that angry, cutting tone. "Your enduring faithfulness. Now, tell me truly. When you found out she was gone did you get engaged to your prince that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?"

Something snapped in Naomi then, and it wasn't a nice something. Every ounce of pain and grief she felt about Emily's death exploded to the surface and roared inside her heart with such ferocity that she didn't even notice the pain her next scream tore out of her throat. She leapt to her feet to match him, their standoff silhouetted by the edge of the ravine. "You mocked me once," she snarled at him. "Never do it again! _I __**died **__that day!_"

The Man in Black opened his mouth to reply, probably a scathing retort about devious bitches like her being incapable of death as well as love, when a plume of dust in the distance caught his eye. Prince Cook and his men on their horses, fast approaching from the spot where they had left Jonah.

Naomi's anger took advantage of his distraction and acted in a way that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have done if they hadn't been talking about Emily. But they had, and they were, and this was the man who had killed her standing right in front of her and his focus was for once not on her at all.

While his attention was on their pursuers she took two steps forward and shoved him with all the strength she had left in her. "And you can die too, for all I care!"

For one moment he hovered at the edge of the ravine, as if the whole universe was shocked at what had happened, and then he fell backwards.

It was not a calm or controlled descent in the least, for Naomi's anger had given her a considerable amount of strength that she had thought she had lost after all that running. Down and down and down he went, rolling and crashing against rocks, spinning out of control and back again. His arms flailed wildly as he tried to dig his hands into anything around him to stop himself, but there was nothing but grass and rocks that broke away from the ravine wall the minute he tried to grasp them. He grunted and yelled and even screamed out at one point when his knee hit a rock the wrong way before he hit the floor.

The wind brought the words up from below, as if it knew it was the owner's last chance of getting a message to the person standing at the top. The voice of the Man in Black lost its affected tone, ratcheted up a few octaves, became lighter…and devastatingly familiar.

"…_as…you…wish..."_

Naomi stared down at the damage she had wrought at the bottom of the ravine, transfixed. There was a long pause as the words processed themselves. Then she gasped in horror and cried out, "Oh, my sweet Emily, what have I done?"

And then without hesitation she threw herself down the ravine at a run, without a single consideration for the dangers trying to get down such a steep decline posed. A few steps in she lost her footing and fell, spinning and twisting and cartwheeling down towards the spot of black and red that was the love she thought was lost forever.

**Farther behind our heroines…**

Prince Cook and company reached the spot where Naomi had offered the Man in Black ransom and the Prince reined his horse in sharply. His hunter's eyes had seen marks that all the others would have missed. Or, rather, saw where the marks should have been and were not.

"Disappeared," he said finally and scowled. "He must have seen us closing in, which would account for him panicking in error."

"Error, my Lord?" Count Foster asked.

Prince Cook looked at him with a grim frown on his face. "Unless I'm wrong, and I never am," he added arrogantly, "they are headed dead into the Fire Swamp."

All the blood in the Count's face drained and Prince Cook nodded in agreement of the unspoken sentiment.

"Exactly."

**At the bottom of the ravine…**

For a long time the two bodies at the bottom of the ravine just lay there. An innocent bystander, perhaps passing by on the way for a nice stroll into the Fire Swamp, would have thought they were dead. Their clothes were ripped from the descent and Emily was breathing shallowly in an effort to put less pressure on ribs that were most certainly at least bruised. Her mask and bandana had long since abandoned her on her way down and exposed her bright red hair for the world to see.

Slowly, very slowly, she moved and dragged herself over to Naomi. The more she moved the more strength she seemed to regain. Emily hooked one arm around Naomi and rolled the blonde girl over. Naomi coughed a little bit and then her eyes fluttered open and focused immediately on Emily's face hovering above her.

"Can you move at all?" Emily asked in that wonderfully low and raspy voice that had been so twisted in her Man in Black persona. She reached hand up and cupped Naomi's cheek.

Naomi's covered Emily's hand with her own and smiled a real smile for the first time in five years. "Move?" she asked breathlessly. "You're alive. If you want I can fly."

"I told you, 'I would always come for you'," Emily said, bringing up her other hand to brush away some disobedient strands of long blonde hair away from Naomi's face. "Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Well, you were dead," Naomi whispered, her face twisted in remembered pain.

Emily's eyes sparked then, and Naomi recognized exactly why she hadn't ousted Emily's Man in Black persona immediately. Her eyes had been different. Oh, not a different color or anything like that. They were still her eyes. Only they _hadn't _been her eyes. They had been cold and hard and angry most of the time and completely flat and devoid of emotion the rest. Everyone always remarked to Naomi on how expressive her own eyes were, but Naomi herself honestly thought she didn't hold a candle to Emily. Every emotion brightened those eyes until they shone like her own personal stars, warming her from the inside.

They had always been bright. Bright with playfulness and humor whenever she gently teased Naomi, or bright with love and affection in those random times when Naomi would look over and see Emily just looking at her, and the only time they had ever been dark was when they had been dark with lust on those times when they had managed to sneak away for a – sometimes literal – roll in the hay (there was no chance of pregnancy, why in the world follow social standards?).

Now they were bright again as she looked at Naomi with so much adoration the blonde thought her heart might just explode on the spot. She'd be okay with that, actually.

"Death cannot stop true love," Emily said, with her wonderful smile that went so wide her dimple showed. "All it can do is delay it for a while."

Naomi placed her hand against Emily's chest. Not for any fun reasons, but because with her palm pressed flat against the black fabric of Emily's shirt she could feel the redhead's heartbeat. It was a little fast but _there _and it felt like every time it beat against her hand it pumped a little bit of life back into Naomi herself. Because she really _had _died the day that they said Emily did and now here was Emily again, saving her like she always managed to do. With every beat the pieces of her heart picked themselves back up and glued themselves back together all on their own.

She only removed her hand in order to lean forward and kiss the spot where it had lay. "I will never doubt again," she said.

Emily tilted Naomi's chin up just like she done in front of the gate, what seemed so much longer ago than five years. "There will never be a need," she said firmly. And then she kissed her.

Naomi made a small desperate sound at the back of her throat and pressed herself up. Desperate, because it had been so long, and she almost couldn't believe that Emily was here and warm and alive in her arms. But she _was _here and she was kissing her, and her lips tasted the same as they used to as they moved together. Emily's tongue darted out and swiped at her bottom lip and Naomi opened up automatically, her hand twisting the back of Emily's shirt anxiously. Emily's hands were moving and caressing Naomi's arms and face gently and slowly, trying to reassure her that she truly wasn't going anywhere ever again.

After a bit she pulled away, stared at Naomi for a few heartbeats, and then kissed her again.

There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C., when Saul and Delilah Korn's inadvertent discovery swept across Western Civilization. (Before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy, because although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each element should receive. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.

Well, this one left them all behind.

* * *

><p><strong>An: So that last paragraph starting with "There" and ending with "behind" is a direct quote from the book. And I love it so. Seriously one of my favorite books. If you're reading this and have only seen the movie (or have neither seen the movie nor read the book, which is inconceivable!) you should do so immediately. They're both great.**

**Next up: The Fire Swamp, and Naomi makes a deal.**

**Voldemort out, bitches. ~FS**


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